She's The Best Liquor You'll Ever Taste
by Sweedledome
Summary: "And just like that, it became a thing. A thing never spoken about in the light of day, a thing that never made it past you two…but a thing none the less. When the alcohol flowed and the darkness of night drew you in, you found yourself entangled in Beca every time, allowing her overpowering malt to wash all over you." Bechloe two-shot.


She's The Best Liquor You'll Ever Taste

It's a thing.

You don't know what sort of thing it may be…but it's a thing.

In the daylight, when your thoughts are clearer and the harsh realities of life have sunk in once more (normally accompanied by a god awful hangover), you debate what it could all mean in your mind. You run it over and over again until you're sick of it…yet your brain doesn't stop picking apart her every little action. You watch her carefully in sobriety, waiting for any kind of sign that what happened in the dark was an act of repressed feelings instead of the mere lust for company that comes with hard liquor.

….but when it's actually happening? How can your think of anything but Beca?

The sharp bitterness of her whiskey on your tongue and the intoxication you feel as you inhale her through the short, infrequent gasps of air that never last long because you _need _her mouth on yours again.

For you, it has been present since the moment your eyes connected at the activities fair. There was an immediate attraction. Now attraction wasn't any kind of a red flag, you'd felt it many times before…but you didn't begin to consider the idea that this may be more than lust until you met those stormy blue eyes once more in the shower when you forced your impromptu duet. There was a _connection, _something that extended beyond the physical. You knew her soul, however briefly, in that moment…and she knew yours.

Of course you were hopelessly curious about her and what this might mean but you held back from acting on your excited hormones as was the norm, instead you waited to see if this bond was something definite. Something more than just the delusions of your own mind because it seemed too…intense, too strong to be a reality. You restrained yourself during that fantastic audition piece and you refused to close those last few inches on hood night just to make sure this wasn't a fleeting thing. In the end though, you concluded that, yes, this _was _more than a simple crush.

That's when your courage failed you. For all the self confidence that had been in over abundant supply over the years, you could not approach her with your feelings. Not when the idea of scaring her away was so abhorrent. Instead you allowed the friendship to blossom while waiting for any sign that she may feel the same pull. Yet, even though you had a better grip than most, it was always so hard to read her and it made being around her so much a thoroughly confusing affair. The effortlessness of your friendship constantly at war with those few moments where the air between you would still and the desire to kiss her would hit with an intensity that grew daily.

Through all the side long glances and the lack of protest when you invaded her personal space, there wasn't ever anything concrete back from her. Not until that aca-party. It wasn't even anything special, just your standard drunken horde of college aca-nerds gathering and belting out surprisingly uncoordinated vocals for a group of people dedicated to the mastering of perfect harmonies. Something that had occurred many times already through the year.

Beca had gotten hammered and you had gotten hammered and you'd escaped the party to exchange meaningful words about life, the universe and everything the way you only can when you're drunk and…and then you were kissing. To this day you can't recall who made the first move or even the words preceding the kiss. The one thing you do remember, with a surprising amount of clarity given the large gaps in your memory, was the sensation of Beca. Every heated lick of her tongue and the way everything else around you seemed blurred into the night, only her scent providing any kind of grip on reality.

When morning came she complained about a hangover, she griped about an uncomfortable night spent on CR's sofa, she'd laughed over vague memories of Amy belly-bumping Bumper into a keg….but there was not a flicker of what had transpired between you. There was no malice or avoidance either…just a lack of recognition that anything more had occurred.

It broke you a little.

Somehow you forged on. You clung on to the idea that drunken actions are sober thoughts. Maybe she needed more time. Maybe she needed to figure things out. You could give her that. So you dropped a few hints but remained silent in the hope that she would suddenly confront you one day, confront you and lay all her emotions to bare.

She never did.

Until the next time there was alcohol and it happened for a second time. The morning came again and once more you found yourself relocated to friend status with the echoing sound of Beca asking what had happened the night before dancing around your tired skull.

And just like that, it became a thing. A thing never spoken about in the light of day, a thing that never made it past you two…but a thing none the less. When the alcohol flowed and the darkness of night drew you in, you found yourself entangled in Beca every time, allowing her overpowering malt to wash all over you. How you wished to find yourself in a similar state the following morning.

We can't always get what we want though.

You've don't even like whiskey. As a little child, you recall the memory of a sharply wrinkled nose and a desire to leave the room when your dad poured himself a glass after Sunday dinner. Barely an inch in the bottom of the glass, its poisonous fume followed him around for the rest of the evening, saturating everything with an irremovable odour that caused you to turn your head away when he went to place loving kiss on your cheek at bedtime.

On Beca though…it seems so right, that strength of intoxication. The very air she exhales seems filled with swirling mist of desire that draws you in, makes you want to taste it and bask in the unsteady sensation it provides. As your mouths collide and there is no escaping the commotion that whiskey stirs in your warming chest, you slowly grow more accustomed to it. More than accustomed to it, you grow _addicted_… because it's closed doors and hurried kisses, it's dark corners and searching fingers, it's urgent secrecy and her issuing the quiet, needy gasps of your name that never exist outside of those brief moments where you exist only for each other.

It's the one time you get to have her.

On one occasion, you question her choice of beverage. It's after the time you two sneak off to be alone and before the time you begin fusing your bodies together in the hope that they'll never separate again. You ask her what it is as she swirls that amber liquid around in her glass.

"Why do you even drink that stuff? It tastes _horrible_." You slur, taking another sip of your…well, you're not sure what it is but it's fruity and it's sugary and its sticky after taste is just enough to distract you from Beca's whiskey. You can feel your nose wrinkling in distaste as smell lies heavy on the air after she takes another gulp. Then there's a low chuckle.

"You get used to the taste after a while." That confuses you. Why get used to the taste? There are a million and one different drinks out there that don't require getting used to.

"Then what's the point? Why not drink something you actually like the taste of?"

"Like Boone's Farm?" Beca teases and you give her shoulder a nudge…perhaps too much as you have to quickly grab the front of her jacket to stop her toppling backwards.

"Shuddup. Seriously, why?" Beca pauses for a moment, she takes another drag out of her glass and allows the contents to swill around her mouth briefly as she contemplates her reply.

"It's not about the taste." The arch your eye brow at that simple statement. "It's about the feeling. When you drink whiskey, it's so potent, so strong that the few seconds after you swallow it…it's still there. You breathe in and it's still there in the air of your throat, you can feel it going to your lungs. It expands them, makes them feel filled with something other than just oxygen for once. Then…once it's coated your throat…it goes down and it kinda settles, just here. Right in this thingy." She points to her chest.

"Sternum." You nod. As a biology major, you really shouldn't be so proud of remembering a body part you learnt in high school.

"Yeah, sterfum, that thing." You refrain from correcting her. "It gets really warm, like…weirdly warm. You feel like you can do anything with it there. It _burns _but it's okay because it's burning _inside _of you. It's a part of you and it doesn't hurt because it's _your _burn. You feel invincible with it there." Beca looks almost inspired in that moment. Even though you still dislike the taste of whiskey, you kind of get what she means. There's that swaying warm tingle that sits inside of you when Beca invades your mouth and the remnants of her drink accompany her. A small part of you points out that that may not have anything to do with the whiskey.

You ignore it in favour of looking at Beca, she truly is indescribably beautiful in the crisp night air. You watch her take in another careful gulp with a fluidity that doesn't seem possible with all she's had to drink this evening. This time you notice her draw in a quick breath afterwards, relishing that intemperance it gives her. The air is perfectly still as you ponder this until Beca breaks your musings.

"Chlo?"

"Yeah?"

"You…_you_ burn. Here." Beca points at her chest once more and even with your mind fighting against its blurred edges, _that _sticks. For all the memories lost that night, that's one you recall when you wake up. One that you debate the meaning of over and over again as you question if Beca really even knew what she was saying at that point.

She's so far gone that her eyes are permanently half closed, trying to concentrate and focus their surroundings. She blinks slowly as the words float through the air. When she turns to look at you, a part of you knows that you should pull back and stop this now because this is more than the times before…but you consent her to hook you in. She allows you the courtesy of a moment's pause to back away should you want to, but you don't take it. Instead you meet her half way and then you're in that familiar pattern of sliding tongues and the desire to encompass Beca in every way imaginable.

You're fully aware that the morning will be much the same as usual and you'll have to deal with that emotionally…for now though? You give yourself a break from shoving those feelings away. You permit yourself to enjoy what's happening here. This time your hand grows bold and slips into the gap between her shirt and her jeans, groaning as you feel that skin for the first time. Her hand makes a move of its own and finds its way to the back pocket of your jeans where it certainly takes the opportunity to feel with lies beneath its fingertips. When both your hands travel further than normal with no resistance…part of you thinks that this time may be for real. This time may be something more than your standard grope.

You should have known better.

Morning arrives in its usual inconsiderate manner and Beca is clearly sticking with what she knows best. 'Man, last night was crazy', 'did I really steal that traffic cone?', 'Lily set fire to _what?_' and similar. When her eyes sweep past yours though, there's the briefest pause and you know it's still there in her mind. No matter how well she disguises it to the rest, she can't hide it from you. In that second, you resolve to confront this. To find some kind of solution because you cannot carry on as you have been now.

Before you can formulate any kind of strategy though, semis happen. Semis happen and they're an absolute fucking disaster. In the crucial moment, Beca's eyes contact yours with a plea for back-up. You agree with her but Aubrey's been there since you were four years old, it's your default to back her up in times of trouble. She's your best friend, that's what you've done for years so it becomes automatic. You allow years of loyalty to take precedence in that one moment and it haunts you all the way back to your parent's house in Michigan.

Beca's gone. Beca's gone and even the prospect of a spring break spent in the perpetual silence of a hospital chucking back cool fluids seems preferable to enduring Aubrey's irritable attitude. You were kind of relieved to leave the flat and get some peace and quiet from Aubrey's never ending fuming. As it turns out, being stuck in a hospital room with nothing to do but fear for the future of your singing while desperately trying not to think on a certain tiny DJ who you know could assuage your fears in an instant with a carefully timed sarcastic comment were she here, is not fun. Like, at all.

After the operation, things begin to pick up. You've lost some of your upper register but the outcome could have been far more severe. You're lucky. Doubly lucky it transpires when a text from Aubrey lets you know that you're back in the competition. Even with this happy revelation, you still feel kind of hollow inside. You've been miserable for a solid couple of weeks now and you know the exact reason why. Without hesitating, you tap out a text to Beca in the vague hope that your luck will bring you a third set of good news.

There's never any reply from her but your hope doesn't die. Instead it fuels you, starting as a quiet flicker of fire inside that steadily builds. All at once, it's enough for you to finally break through that barrier of your desire to placate Aubrey when she's stressing out and allows you to say what you're really thinking one rehearsal. You're not entirely sure how you end up wrestling on the floor next to a pool of vomit while being straddled by a screaming Australian…but it happens. Things like this always seem to just happen with the Bellas. You've learnt to stop questioning it. Not that it matters anyway, because the bizarre scene is interrupted by a familiar voice calling for order.

And then she's there.

Right in the middle of all the commotion, Beca appears to awkwardly put herself out on the line for everything you are so very passionate about. She gets it, she gets how important this is and she's willing to forget her pride and bow down to Aubrey just to be a part of it again.

It's when she begins to drag the chair away that you realise, the second she's out that door, you are too. If Aubrey lets Beca leave now, you're going too because….because…fuck. You love her. You are so impossibly in love with that tiny little scrap of obstinate willpower and excessive eyeliner that you'll quit the Bellas for her. Your primary purpose for the last three years of your life will be gone in an instant if Aubrey lets Beca walk out that door and you'll find a way to be okay with it because somehow Beca has become more important to you. You almost scream with relief when Aubrey calls out to her and you don't have to make that decision.

You work together better than a well-oiled machine in the following week. You stay by her side as she mixes, furiously coming up with corresponding choreography to match her genius in frantic preparation for finals. You pay careful attention to her, recognising when she needs feeding and a Red Bull to keep her going just a little longer until she's pushed through a creative barrier and when she needs to forcefully be dragged away from the screen so she can get some shut eye to clear her head. You're a co-ordinated partnership and you feel yourself fall a little bit further in love with her each and every day in the knowledge that you understand each other.

It's that very understanding that keeps you from pouring out your feelings just yet. A revelation of that magnitude would throw Beca's concentration and you wouldn't have time to enjoy the moment in the midst of all your preparations. Plus, being completely honest, you want a good couple of hours at least after you tell Beca to engage in certain…activities and you absolutely do not have the time for that right now with the finals so close. Luckily for you, Aubrey and Stacie are there a lot of the time too to help and it stops you from acting on your thoughts of just going ahead and jumping Beca anyway when she's making that cute little concentration face that gets to you so easily. (It's ridiculous how unwittingly hot Beca can be without realising).

Finals come about faster than you expect and Beca comforts you through a wave of nausea that refuses to leave you in the preceding 24 hours. That victory is so close you can almost taste it and you begin to worry that you'll screw up in the final moment and then you worry that you're worrying too much and it's going to affect your performance. It's one big cyclic path of destruction and strees that doesn't leave you until you walk out in front of your audience.

You change the second you step on to that stage. Beca blows that pitch pipe and you are _electric_. You're barely aware of the distant roar from the crowd, all you can hear is the perfect confidence of everyone on that stage because you are collectively _killing _it. The Bellas are owning this in a way you never even knew was possible.

Then all at once…it's over. It seems so extraordinary that all the preparation you put in comes down to a song that's not even four minutes long. Still, the euphoria is happily coursing through your system in a way that you know is going to last. If ever there was a time to do this, it's now. You swivel your head around looking for Beca. Where has she gone?

Ah, there she is, down in the seating area. What is she doing down ther-

She's kissing Jesse.

Oh.


End file.
